


Courage Under Fire

by thedevilchicken



Category: Actor RPF
Genre: First Kiss, First Time, M/M, Road Trips
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2006-01-02
Updated: 2006-01-02
Packaged: 2018-04-05 09:21:01
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 18,266
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4174518
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thedevilchicken/pseuds/thedevilchicken
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>One car, two guys, a revelation and two thousand miles to see it through.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Courage Under Fire

**Author's Note:**

> Originally posted on Livejournal on 2 January 2006, for the DamonAffleck New Year Story Exchange. 
> 
> Set after Matt's finished filming on Courage Under Fire, for which he lost about 40lbs. It's a pretty scary transformation, and inspired this fic.

It's too fucking hot for this shit. 

He's spent a hell of a lot of time waiting, just sitting there at the side of the small hotel lobby, cigarette in hand and a magazine spread open on an article on Bruce Willis's somewhat lacklustre singing career, and it's at least giving him a few chuckles while the concierge - or what apparently passes for one here, a stoned-looking guy in a dirtyish shirt that's never seen an iron - eyes him oddly. He's been sitting there over an hour already and he's felt every minute of it, cursing under this breath about the total and utter lack of air conditioning as he loses approximately half his body weight in sweat, sticks to the corners of the pages as he turns them and basically feels himself reducing the fuck down into an unsightly mass of fat, skin and hair - including the goatee he's currently sporting that he's _sure_ , beyond a shadow of a doubt, is going to crack Matt the fuck up when he gets there. 

Matt's supposed to be through filming today. Of course, filming's _supposed_ to've been over for about a week now and Ben was _supposed_ to be on his way to Jersey for rehearsals, but he's learned to take Hollywood dates with a pinch of salt or a mild-mannered fuck you and he keeps telling himself it could be worse. Technically he supposes it could; there could be an asteroid hurtling toward the Earth or there could be Bruce Willis's vocal stylings pumped into the lobby but honestly, the guy slouching at the desk looks more inclined to blast the place with Iron Maiden than Bruce's particular brand of worrying pop. And really he's just trying not to remember that one time in Germany with Kevin, stuck in a restaurant listening to David Hasselhoff. He may never come to terms with that trauma. 

So, sure, it could be worse. The world could be about to end, he could've been mugged on his way through the parking lot (with the bored-looking kids out there in the slightly dodgy neighbourhood, too fucking hot to actually use those skateboards for skating, he wouldn't've been surprised. And why the fuck the producers are putting up a bunch of movie stars in this fucking dump is beyond him), he could've choked to death on that lousy burrito back in El Paso... but this still isn't exactly a comfort. After all, considering the fact that he's just made a twenty-hour drive with only a couple of rest stops and maybe three hours' sleep waaay the fuck over at the other side of Texas, and ruling out the possibility of imminent global annihilation and/or death by snack food, it's still too fucking hot for this shit. 

He turns a page, shaking his hand to unstick it from his fingers though he ends up having to peel it off instead. Julia Roberts stars up at him from the magazine. This is not an improvement and to top it all off, the concierge is _still_ staring at him. Either he's going to call him Butt-Man as he walks by, say something he probably considers the height of wit about the back of a Volkswagen, or ask him why the fuck he's loitering in the lobby and kick him the fuck out. He's lousy at gauging which it's going to be but he's actually hoping for Butt-Man, possibly because he has a vision of the kicked-out what-happens-next, with some kid stumbling upon him in three days' time, cooked to death in the back of his rental like an oversized Thanksgiving turkey. He can think of ways to go that are vastly more dignified than winding up wrinkled on the back seat of a cheap Honda, being poked at by kids with sticks and patted down for loose change before anyone bothers to call the cops. 

What's particularly fucking frustrating, he thinks as he skims the page of Prostitute with a Heart of Gold, is the fact that he was supposed to have a part in this movie, too. Okay, so if he'd actually taken the part it'd be over already, would've been for _weeks_ now, along with the whole section of the movie with Meg Ryan and the fucking helicopters that Matt spent a completely insane amount of time describing to him over the phone in absolutely excruciating detail. But he'd been under the impression that he'd have a scheduling conflict with Kevin's new movie and that obviously took precedence. Of course, taking those dates with a pinch of fucking salt he'd've _known_ it'd still be in fucking pre-production right now and he wouldn't've spent a fair fucking few extra weeks just bumming around LA, taking an audition or two just because he felt like he ought to rather than out of any real desire to land a job. Probably because he already has one lined up, despite the lousy timekeeping, and he'll be back out East for it soon. Soon enough, at least. 

Except maybe it's _not_ soon enough, because he's bored out of his tiny little mind. He's verging on bored enough to wander on over there, stretch his legs and actually strike up a conversation with the guy at the desk just so he doesn't lose his mind from the fucking silence or expend valuable energy (and produce another bucket of sweat) with unintentional fidgeting. Sadly, any conversation he may or may not have with the slightly slack-jawed staff member would probably qualify as the highlight of his day so far, beating out the previous high of watching Denzel's pert ass go marching on by in jeans Ben would _swear_ had creases ironed into them, mid-diva fit over the sugar content of his coffee. Ben just smirked to himself as the circus went by and then went back to his cigarette and his magazine. That was forty-five minutes and six articles ago. He's starting to think he might not make it. By the time Matt gets there, the fucking magazine's going to have more moisture in it than he has, and that's a vaguely depressing thought. 

Aaand... he's firmly back in the territory of 'it could be worse' but my God, it's not exactly comforting to think that all of this is only marginally more amusing than the time his ex-girlfriend walked in on him masturbating while reading an interview with Keanu Reeves. The two things were wholly unrelated, naturally - apparently whacking off on the couch after Seinfeld (also unrelated) does nothing to occupy his brain and in his defence it _was_ a pretty good interview - but the poor girl was understandably somewhat traumatised all the same. Though 'traumatised' may be something of an exaggeration since really all she actually did was raise her eyebrows, pause for a second while he scrambled to zip up his pants like he'd done something thoroughly criminal, and then muttered a fairly comical 'let's never speak of this again.' The way her friends snickered when he walked into the room one night soon after, the lot of them sipping bad cocktails and halfway through a video viewing of Speed, he got the feeling someone had talked about it. It definitely wasn't him. 

He's just about to wipe those particular memories, bizarrely amusing though he currently finds them, from his immediate recollection by wandering over to the front desk, when the doors open and he's blasted with an oddly blissful waft of arid outside air. Then Meg Ryan walks by with an entourage fussing around her that's almost big enough to fill the lobby and she looks over at him, looks away, glances back as she walks with one of those confused-little-girl frowns like she knows his face but she can't quite place it. He looks right back at her, somewhat amused, and then to hell with it, he winks and flashes her a quick grin; okay, so she laughs, but she looks back with that picture-perfect smile that makes him wonder why the hell she was cast in this movie and that's nice, he doesn't mind flirting with the A-list. And if he weren't stoically lurking there in wait of Matthew, he might be tempted to say something, make a fool of himself asking her out for a drink. He can't remember if she's married or not and really that doesn't matter - it'd be a fucking good story to tell Kevin when he eventually gets to Jersey, how he hit on Meg Ryan in a hotel lobby while doing a pretty damn good impression of the sweatiest guy on earth. 

Ten minutes later and he's wishing to God he'd done it because he's just _so_ fucking bored, to the point where the last few points of actual coherent thought have proceeded to smoosh together in his obviously warped brain until he's stuck there imagining jacking off porno-style all over Meg Ryan's virtually non-existent chest while Seinfeld plays in the background. And really, this isn't a route he should be following unless he feels a particular urge to explain away a hard-on the size of Alabama when Matt eventually turns up, especially as it's a slightly bizarre scenario to find all that arousing. Still, he does escape that particular fate because his mind wanders on quite quickly into the realms of 'is my cock big enough for porn?', though really he has an idea that going back to college might prove a more valid choice for his long-term future than pornography, should this acting gig fall through. He's just so fucking bored right now that this bizarre internal debate somehow seems to make actual sense. At least, he sincerely hopes it's just the boredom. If not, he may need to ask himself some serious questions in the not so distant future. 

Then the door opens again. He turns. And finally, it's Matt. 

It'd be wrong to say he doesn't recognise him right off the bat, or that he does some kind of melodramatic double take that he's honest to God never seen _anyone_ do in real life, like how no one ever slips on banana skins or thwaps people in the face with frying pans. He just turns and looks and he knows it's him, possibly because he could be made up like Coco the fucking Clown and Ben would still know it's him. He just wishes it weren't. He really fucking wishes it weren't.

And that's when he closes down. 

***

It's been a long day. To be fair, it's been a long week. It's been a long fucking _month_ , and he's hungry, he's fucking starving and exhausted and much as he loves his job, he's glad it's over. He's pissed off with reshoots and extra takes and photocalls and just wants to go home. Texas doesn't feel like home, even the location shoots in California felt ridiculously far away and the Meg and Denzel Show's fine, it's great, but... it's been so long that he really does just want to go home. It'll be a relief. It's over and he just wants a day or two or twenty lounging on the couch watching ESPN and eating McDonald's. Just a couple of days, that's all. He'd really like his life back.

This is probably why he breaks into a huge but tired grin as he pushes open the door and steps into the lobby. That useless concierge is still slumped over the desk, sure, because he's never anywhere else and come to think of it, in all the time Matt's been here, he's not sure if he's seen anyone sitting there _except_ this guy, the one who's sitting there currently staring at someone across the room. Someone who's looking tired and about to overheat, but also very familiar. 

He pauses for a second to take off his sunglasses and hook them into the collar of his shirt, then walks over to the table where Ben's sitting, the relief of seeing him apparently glossing over the fact that after a moment of Ben's happy-smile his face just _dropped_ and he's sitting there with his gaze glued to the magazine resting on the low coffee table in front of him. He glances down at that magazine, quirks a brow, gestures at it. 

"Tom Cruise?"

Ben shrugs. He's staring at him and then he looks away, not even at the magazine and that's just plain odd, it makes Matt frown. It's really starting to register that this isn't exactly the welcome he's been expecting, even if he can't say he'd be terribly ecstatic about sweaty manly hugs right now, but... it would've been expected, the accepted norm, and maybe he had a sarcastic response already lined up that he's feeling sort of put out that he can't use now. Then there's a pause. Matt stands there uselessly with a frown on his face and Ben doesn't look at him, just fiddles with the strap of his watch, clasping and unclasping it with an obnoxious metallic click about which Matt's about to commence bitching but then Ben just... stops. And looks up.

"Can we get out of here?" he says "I feel like a fucking roast turkey."

Matt nods. Ben closes his magazine, curses as his fingers stick to the cover, and he stands. He doesn't quite look at him. Matt pauses and then he leaves, waiting for Ben to follow, trying to persuade himself that Ben's just cranky from the ridiculous drive in this ridiculous heat. It's unfortunate in a way that he knows that's not it. 

A conversation then, as they walk: 'how was the drive' and so on and so forth. It's weird because usually you couldn't shut Ben up for all the tea in China, assurance of the Sox winning the World Series or the lead in a fucking Spielberg flick, but he's practically monosyllabic. Matt wants to grab him by the shoulders and shake him or slap him or just poke him in the chest repeatedly until he starts acting more like his garrulous best friend and less like a mute or a particularly depressed mime. But they're out of the minuscule hotel elevator already and walking down the too-narrow hallway and by the time they get to the door to Matt's room, he's forgotten what he was going to do or say. As he opens the door he's just left with a lingering sense of the relief he felt as he first saw him, that's now sort of tainted with something not unlike confused disappointment. 

The room's a mess. Matt closes the door behind the two of them as Ben steps past him and he almost expects a comment about it, just because it's what he'd usually do. No comment comes; Ben just leans against the wall by a chest of drawers - the top of which is littered with cups and glasses and water bottles in various states of emptiness and a shirt that's probably been there for the last ten days (there's something under it that, judging from the shape and size, once contained food of some sort, but he's not sure that he wants to find out what it is) - and he fans himself with his movie magazine. 

"You didn't have to come," Matt says, though it's completely redundant because they both know he didn't _have_ to. He's just searching for something to say to break that interminable silence, maybe by getting a reaction with something not wholly unlike a cheap shot, but unfortunately all Ben does is shove a few glasses out of the way to put his magazine down. Then he wipes his hands on his thighs; he has print on his fingers and he looks at it, rubs his thumb and forefinger together and makes a face as he glances up at Matt. 

"Yeah, I know," he says as he looks back down at his hand with marked distaste. "I wanted to come. Fucking bored in LA."

"And this is better?" Matt perches on the edge of the desk that the television's standing on, fingers curling a little too hard at the edge because this makes no fucking sense to him. Ben was supposed to turn up and they'd go grab lunch - though it's actually closer to dinner now - and they'd catch up, Ben would regale him with tales of Glory Daze and Matt'd bore the pants off him with Courage Under Fire. They'd crash in Matt's room, watch some bad movies or pay-per-view porn and head back to LA in the morning. This isn't right. It's not even close. 

"Okay, what's the deal?"

Ben looks up, eyes him levelly but doesn't say a word.

"Is there a reason you're so fucking tight-lipped?"

Ben shrugs, looking strangely nonplussed.

"Did I do something to piss you off in a way that's more than usual?"

Ben raises his eyebrows. He really doesn't need to speak because that look's registering loud and clear as _no shit, Sherlock_.

"Then you might want to tell what the fuck I did, from miles away in a different _State_ , for Christ's sake. I'm not psychic."

He thinks that seems reasonable; Ben, however, doesn't seem at all persuaded. So he steps away from the desk and he moves closer, because it seems the logical thing to do. Ben's just looking at him and maybe there's a flicker of something but disconcertingly, whatever it is, Matt can't read it. Again, he steps closer. 

"So, what did I do?" Ben frowns. "Am I going to have to guess?" Ben sets his jaw. "You know I'll guess wrong. I fucking suck at guessing, it's inevitable at this point." And Ben's eyes narrow. "Christ, Ben, what the fuck did I do?"

"This."

He frowns. "Ben, I don't know what you mean."

So he lifts his hands and gestures stiffly. "This, Matt. How you look. _This_."

He pauses for a second to process that, now just a few feet away. And then he rolls his eyes melodramatically. "Oh, c'mon. You can't be serious."

He glares. Apparently, he's serious.

"Don't be a jackass, Ben. C'mon. I lost some weight, that's all. It's not that bad."

"No?"

"No."

"So what the fuck _is_ it?"

And he pushes him. Not hard, just enough for him to rock back on his heels and frown. 

"Shit, Matt, what the _fuck_ is this?"

And again, harder. Hands connecting sharply with his chest like something's just bubbling the fuck up in him and he can't keep it down, forcing Matt to take a step back. 

"I don't get it. Have you not even fucking _seen_ yourself? Jesus fucking Christ."

"I just..."

"Fuck!"

Another push and Matt goes down, falling right down on his currently excessively skinny ass. And Ben just stares. Matt stares right back up at him, from the floor. It's not just him – they're _both_ shocked.

He's not scared, not by a long shot, and he's half sure his expression says as much. But for a moment it's like Ben can't move, not like he doesn't want to but like he doesn't know how or like he's seeing the look of utter dismay that's on his face reflected in Matt's and that's just paralysing to him. But then he does move, lurches forward like some kind of demented live-action puppet and then stops again to gather himself before coming crashing down to his knees, hard enough that Matt can feel the bump in the floorboards. And Ben doesn't touch him right away, just looks at him and Matt just can't move because that look on his face, that fucking _look_. It twists at his gut. 

"I'm sorry," Ben says, quietly, confused. "I didn't..."

"I know."

"It just you... Jesus, you..." He brings up his hands, cupping Matt's face, thumbs tracing his cheekbones, the edges of his eye sockets. "What the fuck did you do to yourself?" Ben's hands at his shoulders as he shuffles closer, Ben's fingers against his lips just briefly, warm and smelling like coffee and nicotine. "I'm fucking scared for you."

Then there's Ben's hands slow and rough over his hips and non-existent belly and his ribs, like they're trying to find any part of him they recognise and coming up desperately fucking short. And all Matt can do is let him do it because of that look on his face, fucking destroyed. He's really fucking scared him, he can't deny it even if he doesn't quite _get_ it, and it's just so wrong and quickly, he wraps his arms around him. Maybe he's wrong because Ben feels so fucking _big_ all of a sudden, more so than usual and that's really saying something. He feels so skinny in Ben's arms. 

"I'm sorry," he says, and he means it, but by then there's already been a strange sort of change in Ben, his fingers grasping at Matt's shirt and he rests his forehead down against his. It's better, not that odd sort of clutching he found so damn disconcerting maybe just because it didn't feel like Ben, at least not any version of him he knows. This feels like him, something more familiar, and he finds he can even smile a little now as Ben's hands come back to his jaw, as his face moves against his. 

There's actually a moment when it feels right, the slow press of Ben's mouth against his own, new without straying so very far outside the bounds of the familiar. It's fine for a moment because it's Ben and it's oddly comfortable in a way, maybe because it does at least mean that he's ceased the freakout. And then, suddenly, it's all wrong because it's _Ben_ and they're kissing and oh fucking _God_ , this was never meant to happen. He told himself that a fucking long time ago, and he meant it, tucked it all away at the back of his mind and got on with things. But now? It's actually too brief an action for him to process because Ben pulls back with a disturbingly _oh God, what have I done?_ sort of look on his face and suddenly Matt's glad he didn't process it. They'll put it down to relief or to terror or they'll never speak of it and that's just fine. Really, it is.

But then Ben takes a shaky breath, his hand lingering at the back of his neck, and suddenly Matt's good intentions mean nothing. If Ben looks at him now, he'll kiss him back and to hell with the consequences, for once in his life he'll take a fucking risk. But Ben doesn't look at him. He hauls himself to his feet instead and offers him a hand, clears his throat as he carefully averts his gaze.

"Dinner?"

Matt takes his hand. He's not disappointed. He couldn't be, so that's not it at all. He's relieved. He really is.

"Sure," he says, and the smile's not forced. It's not. "Let's go."

***

There's apparently only so much that Ben can deal with in any two-day period because honestly, he's not been thinking about last night. He's been thinking about yesterday, sure - that section of the day that included a stupidly fucking long drive clear across Texas followed by over an hour suffering something close to heat exhaustion in a hotel lobby seems to hold some bizarre fascination because when he thinks about yesterday, that's what comes to mind: potential near-death in the back of a Honda and subsequent stick-poking. But that's it. Absolutely. There's definitely no section in his head labelled "Tuesday night: the bit where I lost my tenuous grip on reality and laid one on my best friend." Possibly because that's too long to work as an effective label, but he'd still deny its general existence.

There _is_ a part under "Tuesday night: dinner (and Matt's so fucking thin!)," and that he definitely remembers. He's sitting there the morning after the night before, down in the tiny hotel restaurant that he's not sure he can bring himself to actually _call_ a restaurant, still damp from his shower, staring balefully at half a pink grapefruit and generally bypassing those thoughts as best he can - which isn't stunningly well considering the fact that Matt's been sitting there opposite him in a shirt that's practically hanging off him. It's like he's been pared away right down to the bone and while he can't say that what's left there isn't familiar, it's still pretty fucking disturbing. He's happy enough to let himself believe that's the reason he's been alternately staring and averting his eyes for the last half hour. It explains the unlikely phenomenon rather conveniently indeed.

And what's worse is that interspersed with chit-chat and set-related anecdotes that they're telling like everything's fine, they're having this conversation, something Ben has a feeling might go on for quite a while because Matt's just not getting it. No matter how many times he says it, it's just not sinking it.

"What's _wrong_ with you?" Matt asks, sipping a coffee and looking like death warmed up, made over or in other ways poorly brought back by means of apparently only partially-effective necromancy. 

Ben shrugs, still eyeing that grapefruit like it's committed some kind of heinous crime. "I'm fucking pissed, okay?"

"Yeah, I kinda got that part. What I'm missing is the part where you explain why in terms I understand."

Ben puts down his spoon - he's kidding no one, he's not eating that grapefruit - and looks over at Matt, elbows on the table, fingers steepled. He raises his eyebrows, tilts his head slightly in his best attempt at reasonable. "Maybe because you've plainly hurt yourself. You look like a fucking coke-fiend, Matt."

"Well, that's kinda the fucking point." The snapping not-quite-sarcasm just earns Matt a glare, and he softens. "Look, you didn't have the fucking beard the last time I saw you, either. Which looks like it's eating your face, by the way. Just stop freaking the fuck out, okay?"

And Ben just looks at him like he's out of his mind because that is, without a doubt, the single most dumbfoundingly stupid thing that Matt's ever said. Apparently, perhaps fortunately, all it takes for Matt to realise the stunning dumbness of his growing a beard/losing forty pounds comparison is Ben's incredulous look, and he does have the decency to look somewhat sheepish then, even if he does keep on going. 

"C'mon, Ben," he says, fidgeting with his coffee cup. "Think about it and tell me you wouldn't do _anything_ for a role."

Ben does actually pause to give this some thought, because Matt does have a point - he's done some pretty astoundingly dumb stuff in the past to land and keep parts. _But_. "I wouldn't do _this_ ," he says, and he's serious, obviously couldn't mean it more. "I mean, geez. Your mom's going to cry, Matt. Seriously. And then fucking kill you, if I don't get there first."

Matt's face falls and Ben leaves off for a minute, giving it a rest and picking his spoon back up, rubbing at the back of it though he's still got no intention of eating that goddamn grapefruit. He does have a strange sort of urge to cram it down Matt's throat, however, just so he'll fucking _eat_ \- he's just all skin and bones and it's sort of putting Ben off _his_ food, not that he was ever particularly likely to chow down on the goddamn grapefruit. He's not even overwhelmingly keen on being awake at this time of day but Matt woke him up watching the morning news and being stretched out on the floor as he was, no cash for a room of his own and the bed very much of the single variety, wasn't exactly conducive to sweet dreams. So here he is and there they are, at a breakfast table in a weirdly ma and pa hotel (he's wondering if the producers ran over budget or if it's just a particularly overt display of nepotism) and he's staring out the window, trying not to freak the fuck out like he did...n't do last night, while he hopes to God it's not going to be so damn hot today. 

"Tell me you'll see a doctor," he says at last, what he intends to be his last comment, glancing back from the thoroughly uninteresting view to a decidedly more painful one. "Please."

"I don't..."

"Fucking _promise_ me."

"I already did."

Ben frowns. "Promise me or see a doctor?" Oddly, it's not until Matt gives him that patented 'sometimes I can't believe you're my best friend' look that he realises it's a rather stunningly stupid question. Fortunately, Matt doesn't actually say that.

"I saw a doctor," he says instead. "Last week."

"...and..."

Matt shuffles in his seat. "Look, I'll tell you if you promise not to freak."

"Cross my heart and hope to die and all that fucking shit, okay? Just tell me."

"Well, after I passed out on set..." He pauses as Ben looks ready to say something, his look cutting him off. "Shut the fuck up until I'm done with the story at least, okay?" He takes a drag on his cigarette, exhales the smoke slowly and taps off the ash into the tacky Texas-shaped ashtray on the table. Then he looks back up at him. "So. After that, I saw a doctor. A whole fucking bunch of doctors, and they did a whole fucking bunch of tests. The consensus is I'm dumb but I'll live."

"And that's it?"

"Yeah, that's it." Matt goes back to fidgeting with his coffee, turning the cup on the table, rubbing his thumb over the rim. "So they gave me this dumbass sheet of dietary requirements and a bunch of meds and that's it."

To his credit, Ben doesn't freak out. He sits there quite calmly and maybe he's grasping that spoon a little harder, maybe it's starting to bend a little in his hand, but he doesn't freak out. He doesn't say a thing about medication. He doesn't pry about the tests and diagnoses, doesn't rant about the fucking unbelievable stupidity of even doing this in the first place or try to articulate just how fucking terrified he was in those first few seconds as he saw him out in the lobby, how terrified he still is right now even though Matt's... well, not exactly fine, that's for sure, but not exactly beating at death's door. He's still Matt, after all. Just a hell of a lot thinner. 

Matt doesn't volunteer anything further and Ben doesn't ask. They return to silence, Ben toying with a napkin now instead of the slightly misshapen spoon and Matt stubbing out his cigarette, drinking his coffee and giving it the occasional half-hearted scowl. It's not exactly quiet in the room, though - various and sundry members of cast and crew that haven't already vacated the premises are sitting around chatting and it's a welcome distraction, pretending he's not listening in on a conversation going on behind him in less than hushed tones about how the wife of some unnamed producer's bleeding him dry in their divorce settlement – so, maybe that explains the mental breakdown behind booking this hotel. But apparently it's not enough to switch off his brain completely because it keeps on ticking over even though he's really trying not to think and there are really no words for how frustrating that is. There's nothing to be done. He turns back to Matt. 

"You need to pack," he said. "I'm taking you back East."

"I need to _what_?" Matt asks, looking suitably startled though he obviously heard him well enough. 

"Pack, Matt."

"You're taking me _where_?"

Ben puts on his best look of 'you've got to be kidding me.' "Home, genius. The East Coast. Y'know, Massachusetts, Cambridge, your mom and my mom and not melting to death in fucking Texas."

Matt eyes him almost warily for a moment, finally leaving his cup alone and sitting back in his seat, crossing his arms over his chest. "In your rented Toyota?"

"It's a Honda."

"Whatever."

"Why not?"

And suddenly 'why not' really does seem to outweigh all the logical reasons why, in fact, _not_.

Matt frowns. Ben shrugs. "Give me that fucking sheet and your fucking medication and we'll just go, okay? We'll make Boston in four days and get you the fuck away from here."

And it means a lot that after an initial glare, after leaving a coffee half-drunk and a grapefruit untouched, after trudging back to the room to pick up their stuff, Matt just does what he's told. Ben stuffs it all into his bag and they leave. He'll make it better. It's all he can do.

***

Ben was supposed to be the one who'd understand.

Ben was supposed to understand because he's always understood and even if most of the cast and crew were supportive, they were somewhat inclined to not quite get it. Ben was supposed to tell him he's been a jackass but it's fine, he'll get better, and in the end it'll be worth it. Instead, it's this. The biggest problem is he's starting to wonder if he's more disappointed in Ben or himself.

They didn't stop the first night and Matt slept there in the passenger side of the battered Honda, under his jacket, to the melodious sound of the Carpenters cassette that'd been left in the ancient vehicle's equally ancient tape deck and Ben's never bothered to replace, thanks to a fixation with local radio. He woke up at 9am in the middle of nowhere, under _Ben's_ jacket – by then he was practically humming 'why do birds suddenly appear?' and just that one line over and over and over again until he couldn't take it anymore and tossed the tape into the back of the car where it bounced off the cushion and ended up under Ben's seat. Matt hates this car already, but he could possibly get behind it just for swallowing up that cassette. Ben gave him a brief look of 'what was _that_ about?' but didn't argue, possibly because the Carpenters were never exactly his first choice for audio entertainment. 

Still, it's not like they've actually made up for the lack of music in conversation because Matt's been timing it this morning; it's been two and a half hours since either of them said anything and even then it was just Ben bitching at him to grab his meds from the glove box and a sandwich from the mini-cooler in the back seat. But Ben keeps looking at him and he's not sure if that's a consolation or not because honestly it's just making him alternately vaguely uncomfortable and liable to ask him what the fuck's going on because that is _not_ the way he usually looks at him. It's something entirely different.

So Matt just turns away and stares out of the window, dozing or smoking or munching on particularly boring foodstuffs as directed as towns and hours of road pass them by. It's not supposed to be awkward to be in the same car as Ben but it is somehow, because he can almost feel the weight of Ben's gaze on his back and it can't be just the way he looks right now that's making him do that, and it's all made ten times worse by the fucking heat that the rolled-down windows and the not even vaguely cool air churned out by the car are doing nothing to combat. It's too hot for this shit. He wants to be back in LA soaking in the neighbours' pool or basking in air con and cool beer, not driving practically coast to coast in this fucking beat-up rented Honda Ben's been driving for the past six weeks. Matt kept arguing over the phone that if he saved the car payments and took the fucking bus he'd have enough to _buy_ a car pretty soon, but Ben's never exactly been the practical one of the double-act.

It just gets hotter as the day goes on. Ben stops to change into shorts and a tank that's seen far better days and Matt thinks about taking off his shirt, though it's not a thought he entertains for long, given Ben's reaction to his appearance even _with_ the shirt. So he sits there, melting into the seat in a not entirely pleasant manner and wishing for sunscreen because his arm on the frame of the open window's turning an ugly shade of pink that'll be an ugly shade of red before he knows it and honestly, he already has enough in the way of medical afflictions - self-imposed though they may be - without adding sunburn to the list. 

That's actually the next thing they talk about - Matt's health or lack thereof. Matt lounges there limply, smiling a strange semi-awkward not-smile and flicking ash out of the window as he smokes and explains it all without really looking at him, what he did or basically didn't eat for how long, how many miles he ran, how fucking exhausted he's been and exactly how the doctors say he's managed to damage himself, to what extent. When he glances at Ben he's just frowning and he really doesn't say a lot, just wipes his sweaty hands on his excessively long, baggy shorts from time to time and looks vaguely pained. That is _not_ a face of understanding. And really, as he goes on, mentions how he did it for the role and he thinks maybe it'll help his career, he starts to realise with an audible groan just how incredible fucking dumb it all sounds out loud, no matter what he believes. Ben really doesn't need to say that he agrees. The look on his face says it all. 

They stop for gas somewhere in Arkansas and Ben buys food in the gas station, albeit candy he forbids Matt to eat because it's not on the sheet. It's too fucking hot so Matt doesn't stay in the car, he lurks under the awning eyeing local newspapers he's never going to buy while Ben's paying for the gas and no doubt mostly melted chocolate and they walk back over to the car together, Ben hanging back just off Matt's left shoulder and he needs to stop that right fucking now because Christ, the silent treatment from someone as ordinarily chatty as Ben's really fucking creepy and worse yet it's making him wonder, what if it's _not_ the silent treatment, what if it's just because all of a sudden Ben's got nothing to say to him? 

"Y'know, maybe we should..." He stops, he turns and Ben looks at him, actually _looks_ at him for the first time in hours and Matt's chest tightens at it. He's so close already but Ben moves in closer, and Matt has to back up against the side of the car that's stupidly hot in the sun and he's so fucking _close_ , leaning in, looking sort of petrified and Matt's almost as scared, almost settles his hands at Ben's waist but then Ben just looks away, opens Matt's door, practically runs away to his own side. Matt can't say he blames him in more than a cursory fashion. He understands. He really does. He wishes he could help but right now he has a feeling it'd be difficult.

Of course, he thinks as Ben starts the car and makes for the never-ending, tedious expanse of what he thinks is the I-40, understanding and acknowledgment of potential difficulty do not preclude not-so-gentle nudging. 

"We need to talk about this," he says after about thirty miles of blue skies, tarmac and deliberation, pausing for a second before he looks at him. 

"No, we don't." Matt's honestly not sure if it's a good sign or not that Ben's not playing dumb as expected, with some poorly-acted, frowny-faced variation on 'talk about what?'

"Yes, we do."

"There's nothing to talk about."

"The fuck there isn't."

Ben's hands tighten on the wheel, knuckles whitening. "The fuck there _is_."

_Well, this is going well_ , he thinks as he rubs at one temple. He pauses, sighs, and all but gives up for the time being. It really is too hot for this shit. "Well, hasn't this just reached the height of fucking maturity."

Ben shrugs, almost smiles. "You started it."

There's a moment then wherein they just look at each other, Ben obviously somewhat wary of taking his eyes off what's currently an oddly deserted road but doing it anyway, just for a couple of seconds. And then Ben smiles and chuckles, and Matt smiles and shakes his head. The whole thing's just fucking ridiculous, when he thinks about it, because no matter what's changed - and no matter Ben's protests and denials, something plainly _has_ changed - they're still friends. Matt could almost kick himself for even a momentary worry on that score, because they're friends and that much is absolutely fucking constant. And that's probably why, sooner or later, all their conversations revert to roughly the maturity of the average kindergarten class. 

So they drive on. And now, maybe, though nothing's really been resolved, the silence isn't quite so strained. 

***

They were somewhere east of Memphis (Ben half expected to hear an only half-joking chorus of 'fuck it, let's go to Graceland' from the passenger seat then they passed that sign) when it was mutually decided that driving over halfway across the country sans breaks, despite the truly prodigious amount of caffeine currently in his system, was distinctly _not_ high in the accepted order of Ben's genius ideas. Matt was sitting there in the passenger seat, still staring out of the window at the blur of road-fencing-fields-towns going by and going on about wishing he'd bought that magnetic chess set at the last gas station, though he'd've been playing with himself and not in anything like a fun way; Ben informed him politely that his chess-playing sucks and continued humming along with a cassette they'd bought instead of the chess set, like that was going to keep them occupied. Especially considering that all that the place had was remainders of Bon Jovi and Matt muttered something about how he'd rather fish the Carpenters tape from under the seat or go on listening to country stations out the wazoo until they hit Pennsylvania. Instead, they were listening to variations on a theme of Living on a Prayer for four solid hours until Ben started to think he might be losing his mind. Which is probably why, twitchy and caffeine-addled, pumped full of nicotine, Tommy and fucking Gina bouncing around his head, it seemed like a good idea to stop almost the very instant that Matt mentioned it.

So they stopped, hopped off what Ben wasn't entirely sure was I-40 or I-81 and Matt was attempting to navigate so if it hadn't been for the road signs and the scenery it could've been anywhere from Oregon to Georgia. They ended up in a movie theatre in some smallish town not too far from the exit, basking in the blissful cool of an air-conditioned screen and watching something, the name of which Ben wouldn't remember fifteen minutes after it ended, probably because he fell asleep ten minutes after it began. Matt assures him that it sucked and he missed nothing, which probably means it was the best thing he's seen all year. Still, he's not sure he's trusting the opinion of someone who's been filming with Meg Ryan for the past God only knows how long.

The film ended and they, along with the roughly three other people in the screen, wandered out blinking into the overly bright streets. Now they're sitting in a nearby diner that looks like something straight out of the 50's, both of them perched on stools at the counter. It's been an odd couple of days but this is sort of nice, bitching good-naturedly at Matt about his choice of food because he's pretty damn sure that nothing on that plate is on the list of specified dietary requirements, but at least he's got him eating. And they're talking, actually talking the way he's used to, for the first time since Matt walked into that hotel back in Texas. It's that joking-smiling-laughing thing, that weird kind of physical thing they've always had, probably because Ben's always been Mr. Touchy-Feely, where Ben'll elbow him in the ribs and Matt'll respond with his hands wrapped around Ben's neck in mostly-faked retaliation. It's good, it's natural, he can't stop fucking smiling. 

He just wishes that the guy cooking and serving in the ridiculously small place wouldn't keep looking at them like that. He knows why. He's exceptionally fucking glad Matt's completely oblivious. The food's not bad but he's not sure it's worth this, this fucking moron ruining his afternoon with his best friend. So he resolves to ignore him as best he can, concentrate on Matt. It's just a damn shame that the guy seems to have other plans.

"What's with your... _friend_?" he asks in the end, leaning against the counter not far away from Ben when Matt's run off to the bathroom. The way he says it, Ben can tell he's been just dying to say something, and the look on his face almost makes him wish he were even partially in favour of physical violence against bigoted middle-aged assholes. Sadly, he's not, and he sincerely doubts that that would solve the problem, either.

Ben just looks at him for a moment, weighing his options. "He's an actor," he says in the end, like that explains it all - maybe it does because the guy doesn't ask anything else, just wanders off to dry some glasses. And then Matt comes back in, complaining about a lack of paper towels in the men's room as he shakes his wet hands at him like an overly amused idiot, making Ben smile. But the guy resumes his weird, wary glances and that puts Ben off both the rest of his food and his smile and Matt _still_ seems oblivious; it's right at that moment that something clicks right into place and Matt looks completely bemused as Ben puts down his fork and smoothes out a twenty on the counter… he looks confused as Ben stands, leans over to slip one hand to the far side of Matt's neck. And he presses his lips to Matt's temple, lets them linger despite the awkward silence that follows, the way Matt's almost frozen in place with his fingers curled tight around Ben's other wrist. 

"I think we should be getting the fuck out of Dodge," Ben says under his breath, darting a look at the cook. It only takes a moment for Matt's 'what the fuck was that for?!' look to melt into something more like comprehension. He frowns and then nods. They leave quickly. 

The car's parked a short walk away and Ben stays close the whole time, shoulder bumping Matt's from time to time because Matt, even taking the recently-undead look into consideration, isn't exactly looking in top form. Ben wishes he'd look pissed off, maybe walk back into that diner and verbally chew the guy up and spit him out, though what exactly he could say is somewhat beyond him. He wishes he'd bitch to _him_ at least 'cause God knows the prejudiced son of a bitch could use some insulting, be it public or private. But Matt just walks and Ben digs in his pocket for the car keys, lets himself in then leans over to open Matt's side. 

"I look that bad, huh?" Matt says as he sits back, glancing at him. 

Ben nods as he starts the car, smiles a little sadly. "Yeah," he says. "You really do."

***

When they finally hit Pennsylvania, Matt started bugging him to stop. Just... stop, no real reason for it on the surface other than he doesn't want it to end just yet, or something like that. Like all of this has been a time out of time, just the two of them and a tacky rental car that Matt can't say he expected to make it much past Nashville. He'd say it's been surreal but that's not actually anywhere remotely close to the truth - this has been the single most immediate, stark, genuinely fucking _real_ thing there's been for him in months, since before the movie and Meg Ryan and Denzel and losing all that weight, which seemed like such a truly great idea at the time. To be honest, he's still not sure that it wasn't, but he's not about to tell Ben that; he's been periodically about two steps away from throttling him when they've talked about it since before they even got into the car back in Austin, and he's half convinced that the only thing stopping him on occasion is the fact that he'd actually have to touch him for longer than two seconds at a time for that. After last night and the morning that followed, considering the way tonight's going so far, it doesn't seem like such a likelihood. 

He'd been bugging Ben to stop since they crossed into Pennsylvania; somehow he worked it so it was past ten and dark by that time, through an elaborate system of strategic whining that he had to eat or he was motion sick or any number of other excuses that he should've felt guilty for using but really, really didn't. Ben muttered something about a detour to Jersey and crashing at Kevin's place, saving on the hotel bill, but Matt just gave him this look when he mentioned it that said he really shouldn't. Apparently he took the hint because a couple of hours later they were somewhere outside of New York, pulling into the parking lot of a motel that looks disconcertingly like something straight out of Psycho. And as soon as they got there, Ben left. He said something about phoning home, but Matt's not an idiot. That doesn't typically require the use of an automobile.

A lot happened last night, yesterday, after the movie-and-a-meal somewhere between Memphis and Nashville. They drove on across Tennessee until after dark and then Matt told him to stop. Ben couldn't really complain or protest because he caught him in the middle of a fucking huge yawn that just _had_ to be impairing his ability to drive without actually hitting anything, so they dropped off the interstate somewhere just over the Virginia border, checked into a twin room in a Super 8 and napped for a couple of hours in actual beds instead of just reclining their seats and attempting to sleep in the car in that way that's never comfortable. They watched a little TV after that, something that looked disturbingly like Plan 9 From Outer Space though they talked over it so it didn't really matter, and then took the car out, found a McDonald's and sat in a parking lot across the street from the little drive-thru, eating Big Macs by the light of the big neon M. 

The only problem with that was that there'd been something on Matt's mind for the last five hundred miles, and comfortable though the silence was in theory, he just couldn't help himself in the end. He swallowed his penultimate bite of Big Mac and glanced at Ben. 

"The guy back at the diner..." he started, and trailed off, assuming correctly that that would get Ben's attention. 

Ben glanced at him over his burger. "Yeah?" he mumbled, mouth full.

"You let him think..."

Ben paused just long enough to swallow. "Right," he said. "Well, no, he already thought. And y'know, fuck him if it bothers him so damn much. Whose business is it but ours if we… y'know."

Matt took a sip of his Coke, then plucked at the straw. "So you let him think we are."

Ben shrugged easily. "He wanted to think it. I actually did him a favour, satisfying his sense of self-righteous moral outrage."

"By letting him think..."

Ben looked at him again, frowning slightly. "Yeah. Aren't we?"

"Oh."

"Oh?"

Matt's turn to shrug, still fiddling with his straw. "I just think it takes more than a kiss and a few awkward silences to say we're gay, Ben."

Ben smirked a little at that and took another hearty bite of his burger, munching on it in rather animated fashion and stealing Matt's Coke to wash it down. "Y'know, I was thinking 'we're together' more than 'we're gay'."

"Ah." And he took a moment to process that as he took back his Coke, sucked at the straw and shook his head when he realised he was attempting to suck at ice. Then a blink. "Wait, we're together?"

"Aren't we?"

"I don't know, are we?"

"You don't want us to be?"

"I didn't say that."

"So you do?"

"Did I say that?"

"No." A short pause followed, and a smile. "But you do."

Matt just sighed a long-suffering sigh and nodded faintly, realising a little too late that this was all just Ben's convoluted way of asking for what he wanted without actually coming out - pun totally intended - and asking for it. So that was it, Ben's decision was made, just like that. It's something that Matt's always alternately envied him and then definitely _not_ , that weird propensity for just accepting things that any normal guy would be beating himself up over for months, like Matt knows he did himself. 

"Yeah," he said, in the end. "Obviously."

And Ben smiled. "Good."

So then they returned to silence, Ben sucking at a piece of ice from Matt's now former Coke and Matt attempting to sift through their monosyllabic conversation to try to make sense of what the fuck he'd just agreed to exactly, while he chewed thoughtfully on a stray piece of pickle.

"Ben?"

"Hmm?"

"Does that mean that possibly, sometime, you're going to kiss me again without freaking the fuck out or requiring an audience of middle-aged homophobes?"

He could just about make out Ben's faint smile in the all-but-dark. "Ask me again when I've finished my burger."

So he did, as Ben was stuffing all the empty packaging into one bag and tossing it onto the back seat to dispose of later when he wasn't sitting in an empty parking lot somewhere in Virginia. He finished what he was doing then he looked at Matt, his face the wrong colour in the low, yellowish light and half in shadow, but honestly that didn't matter - it was still Ben reaching over to catch the back of Matt's neck as he leant in, paused, made Matt think he was going to pull back. But he didn't. His lips brushed Matt's, fingers firm at the back of his neck. He pressed closer, firmer, and he stayed just that way for a moment, thumb stroking, pursing his lips just a little before he pulled back. Slowly. Lingering. 

"Better than the freakout?" Ben asked, smiling vaguely, amused but looking something between anxious and embarrassed. 

And all Matt could do was smile back oh-so-vaguely and nod his head just clearly enough to be seen in the near dark. All he could think about was how pleased he'd been back in the diner, that things seemed sort of back to normal between them, then there was the fucking gutting disappointment. Now this. And it more than made up for it.

They left, Ben turning the stereo on and the volume down so the silence was broken by the sound of something distracting that Matt thinks was Someday I'll Be Saturday Night. Which he found amusing at the time in a very vague sort of way because it was still Friday night at that point and really he's completely aware, was aware then, that it's just not funny in the slightest - he thinks he just wanted something to occupy his mind that wasn't Ben, but it didn't work and they ended up talking over Jon Bon Jovi, a conversation that included a highlight of one mortifying moment when Matt had to explain that back in Texas wasn't exactly the first time he'd kissed a guy. He wasn't really worried about Ben's reaction, not _really_ , though he did seem amused that both of the guys he'd slept with back at Harvard were, in the irony of ironies, also called Ben. 

He took it all remarkably well, and admitted as they left the car at the hotel that he might've had a few surprisingly unvoiced suspicions in the past about Matt's sexual orientation, he just didn't think that it really changed a lot in the scheme of things, between the two of them. So they went back into the room and Ben kissed him again like none of that mattered, standing this time, hands at his waist. Matt kissed him back for the first time, slipping a hand to the back of his neck, and it was good, slow, this weird kind of exploration with Matt leaning back against the wall and Ben pressed to him lightly, teasing his lips with his tongue until the kiss deepened. It seemed to go on forever, in the good way, Matt's fingers brushing through Ben's hair, Ben's fingers tracing the admittedly rather prominent curves of matt's hips through his jeans. And it was fine when Ben pulled back, too - they stood in the harsh light and smiled easy smiles, maybe sort of embarrassed around the edges but that didn't really matter. They've done dumber things than kiss in the privacy of their own hotel room, after all. 

Then Ben asked if he felt like watching some television and since they could hardly stand around against the wall all night, they did. They sat jammed together, strangely comfortable on one of the two beds, and Matt flicked through the channels, left it on some cheesy horror flick that he has a feeling was one of the higher number Halloweens though he didn't exactly watch enough of it to find out which one. They were both absolutely fucking exhausted, asleep before they could even kiss again. 

He woke in the morning, one arm lolling off the single bed, TV still on, Ben sprawled all over him. All things considered, it wasn't exactly a bad way to start the day - at least not until after Ben woke up, the outline of the wrinkles in the shoulder of Matt's shirt printed onto his cheek; Ben smiled sleepily, eyes still heavy-lidded, shifted around a little, tightened an arm around him and then... dozed off again for another twenty minutes, while Matt's arm went to sleep and he watched the morning news. But the second time Ben woke... he blinked awake and looked at him for ten slow seconds or more, eyes unbelievably fucking dark. Matt could pinpoint the exact instant that the fact that he was waking up in bed with his best friend with a ridiculous hard-on started to freak Ben out despite the kisses and decisions, and a second later he was bolting for the en suite bathroom. Leaving Matt to imagine exactly what he was doing in the shower. 

Now here he is, in that disturbingly Psycho-like motel in New York state or maybe it's still Jersey - his navigational skills are admittedly lacking and this _is_ a different route after all, it's been unfamiliar territory since the beginning. 

If this were a movie or a bad romance novel, they'd've found there was only one room left, and it'd be a double. It's far from a movie and nothing they'd write would be so fucking trite; he _asked_ for the double room. Ben let him do it. But now he's sprawling on the bed eating M &Ms he doesn't really want that he stole from the car before Ben took off, not really watching a fucking awful documentary on tiger sharks or some fucking thing. And he's starting to wonder what he'd do if Ben didn't come back. 

He'll be back. He has to be. Matt's just trying to convince himself that the only real question is if he'll be back before he falls asleep.

***

There's a convenience store in town and that's where Ben ended up after a rather sudden and unscheduled departure from their motel room. He stood by the ludicrously never-ending bank of refrigerators giving serious thought to sitting himself down in the aisle and commencing his own private pointless search for the perfect dozen. He didn't, however; it was just blissfully cool after the curiously still-hot evening air standing there by a refrigerator full of bottled water - not a single bottle was out of place while he couldn't help noticing that half the Coke fridge was gone. That little revelation bought him another five minutes of standing-and-staring time. For some reason, he really wasn't in a rush to get back to the room. 

Except now he's back. Almost. He's sitting in his dusty-ass rented Honda, still petrified out of his tiny little mind. 

It's totally asinine and he knows it, but he also knows exactly what they're doing here. He all but agreed to it, standing there in the office while Matt glanced at him and asked for a double room and the girl at the desk didn't so much as bat an eyelid, just charged Matt's card and handed them the key, said something about having a nice stay. Ben has the key in his pocket and he's feeling more than a little guilty about taking off like that but he had to, he couldn't help it, he needed to go. Still, he's disappointed with himself and he half hopes Matt is, too, if only because he feels like the biggest jackass ever to walk the earth - really, what's so bad about this that's got him so fucking terrified? 

He wants to say something dumb like they've known each other too long for this to feel right, that Matt's like a brother to him; it's dumb because Matt's like the brother he never had only in that he _has_ a brother and it sure as hell _isn't_ Matt. And how can he say this is so much different from last night? Sure, all they did was kiss and fall asleep, but that's not the point. And it's pretty fucking laughable that he'd be scared of sex, even with Matt, maybe especially with Matt because hey, it's _Matt_ , everything's been pretty easy with him since he was eight years old and now at twenty-three he's panicking about something Matt-related for the first time in years. He really can't express how dumb that actually feels, especially in the wake of his little mid-diner 'what the fuck is wrong with me why am I freaking out who cares what people think I'll do what I want to do oh fuck I want Matt and there's nothing wrong with that there just can't be' revelation. But waking for that second time, pressed up against Matt, hard, knowing how easy it would've been to kiss him, shift against him, bring himself off right there or strip them both down and... well, something in him just couldn't handle it. The physicality was apparently way too much way too soon and he wound up jerking off in the bathroom, feeling very much the fucking ass. 

Maybe the problem is that he can't stop thinking about it, about the things that he wants now that he's apparently admitting he wants him. He's spent half the day thinking about sucking Matt's cock and that's fucking bizarre as far as he can tell, it's kept him ridiculously quiet, because quite honestly until a few days ago he'd really not had too many thoughts in that direction, at least not about going down on a guy. Now he's thinking about how Matt would look as his tongue flickers over the head of his cock, about the sounds he'd make, and his chest tightens as he sits there, dropping his head down hard against the steering wheel. It's not something he's done before. He's lost. Maybe this is what scares him the most. 

Or maybe what's scaring him is the very vivid idea that he wants to be inside him, fucking _squirms_ as he thinks about it because as much as he's thinking about fucking him, he's wondering what it'd be like for Matt to fuck him. He's got a picture in his head of what it'd be like and it's fucking obscene, probably inaccurate in many essential physical details but fuck, it gets him almost shamefully hard, it's been threatening to all day. Matt's hands on his hips, Matt's cock in his ass, Matt slipping a hand over his back... the sounds of it, skin on skin, the way he knows he sounds, the way he knows _Matt_ sounds, though he never thought he'd be dredging up those particular memories, the times they've lived together with those paper-thin walls that he cursed at the time but are now apparently just fuelling his fantasies. He wants to hear it up close. He wants to look him in the eye while he's inside him. And whatever Matt wants to do tonight, he wants it too. Maybe _that's_ what scares him the most.

He's still sitting there with his hands cupped over his eyes, blinking, feeling the tickle of his lashes against his palms and the steering wheel jammed hard against his elbows, when it occurs to him that maybe it _should_ scare him. Maybe that's exactly why he should be doing it in the first place. So he drags himself from the car, and he goes back to Matt, because he wants this. Whatever happens, he just has to remember that he wants it.

He gets out of the car into the night air that's still not quite cool, sort of sticky, makes him cut the cross-country-drive-related stretching short and walk a little more quickly toward the door, that he opens with the key that's been stabbing him in the hip for the last fifteen minutes. And he steps inside. Matt's eyes blink open over there on the big double bed, where he's clearly been dozing in front of the television.

"Hey," he says as he puts the bag down on the table under the closed, curtained window, and turns to close the door.

"Hey," Matt replies from across the room, rubbing his eyes. "I was starting to wonder if you were coming back."

"And leave you alone in this fucking shithole?" He turns, gives him a wry sort of smile. "Never."

"But you took your time."

"Yeah," he says, perching on the edge of the table, shoving his hands into his pockets. "I did."

"But you're okay?"

He nods briefly, smiles a little. "Yeah, fine. The clerk in the convenience store started looking at me like I'd lost my fucking mind after the first fifteen minutes or so standing staring at the fucking Coke, but I'm pretty sure I haven't totally lost it. Not yet, at least. Or no more than usual."

"You know that's not exactly a sterling testament to your ongoing mental health, right?"

Ben smirks, almost laughs. "Yeah, I know. Make sure you've got Bellevue on speed dial."

And they go quiet then, not even really looking at each other, not really needing to talk, and that makes what Ben says next, standing there in that shitty hotel room with the TV playing something that looks suspiciously like Dracula Has Risen From the Grave, even more ridiculous.

"Matt?" he says, somehow making his name a question, and he tears his eyes away from Christopher Lee prancing around on the television. Matt looks up. "We're still going to be friends, right? This..." He gestures vaguely between the two of them. "This isn't going to fuck all that up, is it?"

Matt just raises his brows and sits up. "Jackass," he says with a strangely fond smile, then he shakes his head, gets up from the bed, talks as he walks over. "You could change your name to Sunbeam and go farm emus in Australia and we'd still be friends, you fucking idiot. You could decide you're straight sometime in the next fifteen seconds and, though I'm pretty sure you're only marginally straighter than Rock fucking Hudson, we'd still be fine." Then he settles his hands at Ben's hips, thumbs hooked in through his belt loops, and looks up, vaguely amused. "That being said, _don't_ decide you're straight."

Really, that's all the reassurance he needs. So he tugs him closer by the hem of his shirt. He's still leaning on that table, almost down at Matt's height, and it's not exactly a huge stretch to lean in a little further and kiss the corner of his mouth. 

"If it'll allay your fears in that particular direction," he says, pulling back slowly and suddenly going completely serious in a way that startles himself, never mind Matt. "I want you." 

And it's so painfully awkward to say, so painfully fucking earnest, that neither of them can laugh at it. Matt, to his credit, manages to look suitably surprised and not amused or even smug. "Good," he says. Then he kisses him. 

To be honest, and Ben isn't sure if this makes him a coward or not, he's actually relieved that Matt's made the first move. If that's what the kiss is, and Ben realises he's probably overthinking this when what he _should_ be doing is returning that kiss, tilting his head to find a better angle as he tugs Matt in closer still, running one hand over his back, raking his nails just lightly over the back of his neck. So he does it and it's not exactly tentative because while he's not exactly an old hand at kissing his best friend just yet, this _is_ something they've done before. Or maybe it's not tentative because right now he knows what he wants and whether or he's nervous or not, it's finally starting to make sense. There's nothing to say they can't be friends and this as well, this thing they'll have to hide but for now it's fine, just another thing for them to keep between themselves like the other fifty-something things they really, really can't tell anyone else. Only this is bigger, the kind of thing that, in a moment of naïveté that's forgivable considering the circumstances, he's hoping can only bring them closer. And make his part in Kevin's new movie exceptionally ironic to say the very, very least. 

But it's Ben that deepens the kiss. It's sort of strange because even that's not tentative, it's oddly natural for him to swipe his tongue over Matt's lower lip and make Matt smile against his mouth and when their tongues touch, they both have to pull back and smile and actually laugh, Matt resting his forehead heavily on Ben's shoulder. Then Ben turns his head, presses his lips to the side of Matt's neck and something inside him does an interesting sort of somersault as Matt pulls back to look at him. It's the look that does it. Because it's like Matt's just now realised that Ben doesn't mean this night to end the way the last one did, that they won't be waking up fully clothed to the morning news because what Ben has in mind for them requires much more in the way of nakedness and significantly less Dracula. 

They kiss again and it's hard to say who starts it because it's more like they both decide at the exact same time and meet each other half way. It's open-mouthed, tongues touching, teeth clicking together awkwardly until they get it worked out and Matt's pulling at Ben just as much as Ben's pulling at him, attempting to get him closer because they're just not close enough. Even pressed together, even when Matt shifts against him and Ben knows, _knows_ , that he must've felt the press of his cock through his jeans, as Ben fights down the panic he's promised himself he's not going to give in to, they're just not close enough. So, breathless, hard and almost light-headed, he fumbles with the back of Matt's shirt. He finds the hem and tugs it up, spreads both palms flat against Matt's back and holds him there as he stands from the table and leans into the kiss with Matt's arms circling his waist and he can't even think straight for the way it feels to be pressed against him. But they're still not close enough and Matt seems to agree, hands finding their way under Ben's shirt and brushing his sides, fingers almost clawing at his skin but they need air, have to pull apart and they both gasp then, and smile. 

But then, as Ben's hands go to the buckle of Matt's belt, he pulls away. He steps back. Ben frowns. 

"Look, just..." He's still breathing hard, and steps back in far enough to tug at Ben's shirt as he takes a deep breath. "Look, I'll be right back. Give me five minutes, just calm down and watch some TV." He makes a strange little wavy gesture at Christopher Lee still prancing there ominously. "Don't freak out and disappear, Ben. Really. I'll be right back."

Matt kisses him again, quickly, and then exits stage right into the bathroom; Ben just stands there, not entirely sure what to make of this. The shower starts and he frowns, still getting his breath back, hard and somewhat bemused, stuck wondering if Matt _will_ be right back or if the bathroom's distressingly like something from Psycho, too. Maybe there's a window in there that Matt's currently jumping out of, minus his shoes and without car keys. Which is just amazingly dumb, so Ben sits himself down at the end of the bed and looks over at the fuzzy, poorly-tuned picture on the television like he's really going to be able to give it anything like his full attention. Needless to say, he doesn't. 

It's a fucking awful film that he's not watching. He knows because whatever the fuck it is, exactly, he knows he seen it before, or he's seen enough films like it to know _exactly_ what's going to happen without actually needing to see the rest of it. He's just sitting there sort of staring through it while the shower runs and runs and fucking runs, wondering if now, in fact, wouldn't be the perfect time to freak and run away. Unlike Matt, he _does_ have his footwear and the car keys and he's in possession of navigational skills that aren't roughly comparable to those of a six-year-old – with Matt's, it's something of a miracle that they haven't been lost thirteen times between Texas and here – and he could probably be at Kevin's place in a couple of hours, waking him up and pissing him off and trying to explain, in small words that'll get through the various layers of 2am shutthefuckup, that he's there because he's running away from potentially screwing his best friend. He's pretty sure it wouldn't sound any better out loud than it does in his head. 

So, he doesn't leave. Not that it was particularly likely in the first place, at least not after his silly sojourn in the convenience store. He sits there wondering if maybe that wasn't at least part of the point, leaving him alone in the room to see if he'll change his mind and bolt, give him some time to think it over so he's sure and doesn't regret it as soon as it's over. Or, and it's not exactly unlikely, this is Matt's truly perverse way of punishing him for ditching him as soon as they got there. He just wishes he'd hurry the fuck up in there whatever he's doing because fuck, especially after he's pulled off his boots and his socks and shoved them under the bed, done a quick tour of Die Hard fists-with-your-toes that actually does seem to calm him down, after he's tossed the car keys onto the table, turned off the television and sat back down, it's uncomfortable sitting here in these jeans. One way or another he really has to do something about it. 

And, just as he's attempting to make himself more comfortable, of course at that moment because it _would_ be, wouldn't it, the bathroom door opens and Matt walks back in, immediately giving him a look of 'oh, really?' Ben looks sort of caught in the act for a moment before it registers that he's not actually _doing_ anything, so that makes absolutely no sense. 

"I leave you alone for ten minutes and look at you," Matt teases, shaking his head sadly as Ben neatly avoids the idea that he'll probably never want to know what exactly Matt was doing in that bathroom. He even manages to block out, for the time being, the fact that Matt's practically fucking skeletal standing there in the doorway, in a very real, wrenching way that he's going to go right ahead and ignore completely.

"Need I remind you that you said you'd only be five, or would that ruin the effect?" Ben asks, raising his eyebrows. It's so fucking conversational but Matt's standing there with a towel wrapped around his waist and even though it's beige, like much of the bedroom, and makes Ben wonder if the bathroom's the sort of nasty 70's atrocity that he's currently imagining, well... Matt's still standing there wearing only a towel. Apparently he can't come up with a suitable quip for that. 

"So I took a little longer than anticipated. Strange bathroom, like something out of Psycho." Well, there went the 70's theory. "I got shampoo in my eyes, spent too long groping around for a towel and nearly fell out of the tub." He steps in closer, rearranging Ben's hair like it's the most natural thing in the world and he isn't still dressed in just a fairly small towel. "You really wanted me to rush and end up unconscious on the bathroom floor? It doesn't exactly look clean and I can think of better things to do with my time than spending three hours in the ER and watching bad movies all night till the fucking concussion wears off."

Then he steps back and pulls Ben with him by the collar of his shirt, so Ben takes the hint and stands. He feels like making some sort of comment, possibly sarcastic, but nothing comes to mind so he just raises his brows what could be challengingly and Matt shrugs just very slightly and tugs up the hem of Ben's shirt; Ben's fairly happy to let him, helps him to an extent by raising his arms and then lets out a rather distinct sort of surprised 'gah!' as his shirt's caught over his face and Matt, completely unexpectedly, licks at one nipple. 

"What the fuck was _that_ for?" Ben asks, rather more loudly than intended, as Matt tosses the shirt away, shrugging again and somehow looking perfectly innocent. 

"So, what, you didn't like it?"

"I didn't say that." And apparently that's all the excuse Matt needs to do it again before looking up at him with a small, amused smile. 

He kisses him next, drags him down and he doesn't exactly complain because he's got that expanse of Matt's towel-damp back under his hands and Matt's hands at his neck and his waist. He shivers as Matt's fingers come to the waistband of his jeans, fingertips dipping under, but he doesn't pull away, doesn't want to, doesn't even mind when Matt's hands come to the buckle of his belt and Matt pulls back from the kiss to look at him as he does it, almost like he's checking this is okay and maybe that's exactly what he's doing. But Ben doesn't say no. He just looks down at Matt's hands for a moment then glances back up at him, smiles not-quite-nervously and lets him do it. 

Matt shoves his jeans down over his hips and the relief's immediate, no more pressing against denim, just the thin fabric of his boxers and that makes him fucking _blush_ because oh God, Matt's hands, brushing over his belly and tugging at the waistband of his underwear. He doesn't say no, he _wants_ him to do it, just swallows as Matt tugs them down, shifts his legs to let them fall and then steps out of them and his jeans, shoves them aside with the side of his already bare foot. His cheeks are fucking _burning_. And all Matt does then is smile faintly and step back in close. 

Ben's cock rubs against the damp cotton of the towel around Matt's waist, the friction fucking maddening but only for a moment before Matt's hand comes between them, palm stroking down and making his breath catch. Matt beams a huge, absolutely fucking shit-eating grin and Ben tries to say something disparaging that comes out as an essentially incoherent mumble, and that really doesn't do much to make his point, whatever that point may or may not have been. In fact, Matt's smile just gets wider. 

"Bed," Matt says and nods firmly, though he's slipping his fingers around Ben's cock and squeezing lightly, slowly. Ben honestly couldn't agree more with that particular sentiment, with the change of location or the slow press of Matt's fingers, and says as much though that comes out as a weird sort of mumble, too. And Matt tries to guide him with that hand at the back of his neck - Ben goes a couple of steps before he stops abruptly, clearing his throat like he's going to say something, but given his past couple of attempts he thinks better of it and just gives him a look that he hopes says 'just a second.' Then he steps away. 

It's fucking odd wandering across the room stark naked and hard in front of Matt, and by the time he's made it to the table he's got a feeling his face is an interesting shade of stop-light red. He's _sure_ it is when he turns and tosses something from the bag to Matt and Matt cracks the fuck up rather loudly while Ben tries very hard not to think about how he actually procured the lubricant that Matt's currently holding. He has a feeling that's not a story he'll be telling in a hurry, especially not standing there naked as can be and getting the urge to cover up, which would be blatantly absurd considering what exactly he's planning on doing with Matt. Needless to say, it's something for which an above-average level of general nakedness is a definite plus. Still, Matt throws back the sheets on the bed and says something that might be 'c'mon' but Ben's honestly not really listening - he's just glad about the sheets, if only because while he's not exactly brimming with modesty at the best or worst of times, he has an idea that it'll be easier if he doesn't feel curiously like he's on display. In a private room in an almost deserted motel, with a door he locked himself. He'd be the first to admit that it doesn't really make a lot of sense. 

So he slips into the bed, lies there like an idiot under the sheets and looks up at Matt who's suddenly looking a great deal more serious. His hand goes to the towel and Ben looks away as he drops it, not really knowing why, and he has to make himself look up as Matt slips into the bed next to him, flinches as Matt touches him and then gives him an apologetic look because it's really not like he's changed his mind, he just can't help it. He wants him and that much is pretty obvious from his rather prominent erection but he's just so fucking nervous. And if he's honest, which he pretty much invariably is, he really doesn't have a clue what to do.

Then Matt kisses him and suddenly it seems okay. 

He turns onto his side, into the kiss, and it's great for a moment, it couldn't feel better despite the slightly stale-smelling sheets and the bad light. But then Matt pulls away and Ben frowns; Matt turns, settles on his other side and Ben's stomach seems to perform some entertaining minor acrobatics because Matt leans against him, his back to Ben's chest with his cock caught between them. 

"It's okay," Matt says, "we'll take it slow." But Ben wants to point out that there's no way in hell that this feels slow. The problem with that is, however, that terrifying as it is, it feels fucking good, even with his arm wrapped around Matt's waist because Matt pulls it there and suddenly it's all the smell of cheap shampoo that probably came free with the room, Matt's damp hair against his cheek and the feel of his skin under his hand, his cock against Matt's back. He moves that hand sort of tentatively, fingers splayed over that distinct lack of belly and moving up, finding one hip, skirting over his ribs, and by God, he's painfully fucking thin. It's obscene.

Then Matt's hand comes down over his. 

"I'm okay, y'know," he says. "I'm not about to drop down fucking dead."

Ben nods against him and doesn't say a word. He just holds him tighter.

They stay that way for a couple of minutes, Ben's arm around Matt's waist, his hand pressed to Matt's chest, and he actually wonders briefly if maybe this isn't the way it should stay. He almost wants it to, like he's making sure in a way that makes very little sense even to him that Matt actually _is_ okay. The problem is that really his body has other ideas and so does half of his mind, come to think of it - having him that close is fucking amazing and he has a suspicion that it could be better if he lets it, if he just gets the fuck over himself and moves, or... something. That's all he has to do. It can't be that difficult. Matt'll tell him what to do. 

So he moves his hand. Matt shifts his away and Ben moves his hand up, over Matt's chest where he accidentally grazes a nipple, finding his collarbone and tracing that lightly. Then down, over the ridiculous plane of his stomach that's so fucking flat it's almost concave between his hips, the line of one of which he traces with his thumb. Then he pauses and Matt shifts against him slightly, though he's not sure if it's encouragement, restlessness or something else he's currently too fucking horny to fathom. Still, his hand dips down and brushes over the coarse hair low on Matt's belly, goes lower and his fingers brush at the base of Matt's cock, making him shift against him again and God, that feeling, a little friction between Matt's body and Ben's cock and it's fucking amazing. He sighs and Matt turns his head to glance back at him over his shoulder as best he can and that _is_ encouragement, seeing Matt's big blue eyes so close and so dark with an odd sort of flush to his cheeks that Ben's definitely never seen before. 

Then he takes him in his hand, curling his fingers around the base and making him chuckle with surprise. He strokes a little, lightly.

"You can do that harder, if you want," Matt says, in a sort of oddly tight tone that makes Ben smile and do it harder just because Matt likes it, stroking more firmly, again and again in a slow sort of rhythm that soon has Matt shifting against his hand in time until Matt reaches back, over Ben's arm and over his hip, dipping between them to find his cock and stroke just once, twice, move until the length of him's pressed against Matt's ass and Matt presses against him. Holy fucking _God_ , that's not slow, but it's fine, it's good, he can't keep his hips from pressing forward against him and making him sigh against Matt's shoulder. It's perfect. He could just lie like this all fucking night and let it build, shifting against Matt's ass, stroking him slowly until they both...

"You'd better not come like this, Ben."

His chuckle then is actually almost a groan. "No?"

"No. Maybe some other time but not now." Which is an interesting idea in itself, not that Ben hadn't already assumed there'd be other times, but apparently Matt's assuming the same thing. Except he's leaning away to... oh. He grabs the lube from the nightstand where he left it and puts it on the bed, pries Ben's fingers carefully from his cock, pulls down the sheet and pulls up Ben's hand so he can see it. Ben shifts up on his elbow to peer over Matt's shoulder to see what he's doing and he's sort of incredulous, watching him uncap the lube and squeeze some out onto Ben's fingers, onto his own, spreading it, slipping his fingers together with Ben's in a lubey mess and adding more, getting it all over their hands and part of the sheet but apparently not overly concerned with that and in a few seconds neither is Ben because he's curiously taken in by the way their fingers slide together languidly, lacing, brushing against each other, hands turning, palms touching, rubbing. It really shouldn't feel so damn good. 

Except then Matt stops, and that's really not so good. 

He takes Ben's hand and moves it back, making Ben wonder idly where exactly that lube's ending up and if they've going to get charged for dry cleaning, but then Matt's hiking up his knee, shifting forward slightly and Ben knows what he's doing, feels something twist in his stomach because oh God, Matt's guiding his hand down and pressing one finger against himself, tensing slightly as the tip of Ben's finger presses inside. 

"Slowly," Matt says, practically just breathes. "It's fine but take it slow, okay?"

So he does, shifting that finger just slightly as Matt moves his own hand away and leaves him to it. And it feels weird, fucking bizarre, but maybe that's because he's acutely aware of the fact that he has one finger knuckle-deep in his best friend's ass and Matt's shifting against him, his breath unsteady, telling him to add another, slowly, he knows it's weird but it feels good, he swears, it's been a while so he sort of needs it. So Ben does. It's worth it just for the way Matt reacts, pushing against him, his breathing just a little harsh, muscles clenching and relaxing around his fingers in a way that's just fucking obscene. Until, of course, he stops. 

Matt takes a deep breath and stops moving, just pauses for a second and then sighs. "That's enough," he says, and when Ben doesn't take the hint immediately he reaches back, finds Ben's wrist and eases his hand back, his fingers out. 

"Oh," Ben says, cringing slightly, because fuck, that should've been obvious. But Matt doesn't seem to mind, he just turns a little, as best he can with one knee pulled up and resting on the bed. He finds Ben's cock with his slick hand and flashes him a little smile as he strokes, firmly, coating him and then guiding him closer. He has to turn away and Ben's left with a vague sense that he would've like to do this face to face but sadly, after fucking _days_ of driving, himself even more than Matt, this is actually what makes sense. And it feels good. It feels really fucking good so he can't complain, he really can't, not as Matt bats at his hip through the sheet and then mutters something in a rather low tone about wanting to feel him inside him. Followed by an amused 'that _does_ mean now, jackass,' so he presses forward, pushes inside with a sharp gasp just to shut Matt's smart mouth the fuck up. And himself in the process, apparently.

He does it slowly. Partly because it just can't be comfortable for Matt and partly because he's so fucking tight that if he went any faster it'd be over in about three seconds flat. Matt's tense but the sound he makes then is incredible, a sort of vocal sigh that's not quite a moan and Ben pushes forward, throws an arm around Matt's waist and soon, God, he's inside him as far as he can go, his hand splayed over Matt's stomach and he's breathless and his heart's beating too fast but it's fucking wonderful, holding Matt against him, Matt reaching back to stroke his hip, pausing long enough to turn and somehow with some creative leaning on both of their accounts, they kiss. Then they move. 

It's Matt that moves first, pushing back against him and Ben takes that as a hint, his lips twitching forward and they both gasp, both dissolve into breathless laughter that ends with Matt breathing a weird sort of "Ben, will you just fuck me already?"

Apparently, he's been waiting for an invitation because that's all he needs. The first thrust's kind of awkward, too fast, jerky; they both groan in a not entirely good way, Ben mumbles something that might be an apology and Matt replies with something that sounds sarcastic in the extreme. So he does it again and this time it's better, not perfect but there's time and it doesn't feel bad, just sort of weird and vaguely uncomfortable. But then he does it again and that's it, that's fucking _it_ , and he feels his breath catch, feels Matt's stomach tense under his hand. He's got it. 

From there on, it's amazing. It's still fucking weird, it's still something like a surreal kind of surreal because as much as it's totally fucking absurd, it's happening. He's moving inside him, slow and deep because that's all he can do as they lie there that way and it doesn't occur to him to want it any other way. There are mistimed thrusts, awkward movements that jam his elbow into Matt's hip or Matt's shoulder into Ben's chest but that's fine, they just go on, keeping it down just in case there's someone in the next room though it's exceptionally fucking doubtful. And really, it's better than he thought it could be, seems to make more sense than he thought it would but in the end, it really shouldn't surprise him. They've been good together all along. 

He can feel it build as he moves, the way he wanted it as he rubbed against him, just the way he hoped, with a warm sort of tingle and an almost-shiver that gives him just enough warning to slip his hand from Matt's belly and down, stroking him in time. When they come, it's far from simultaneous; Ben's first, everything in him giving a tense sort of twitch and Matt cursing under his breath as his hand grips him just a little too hard, and Matt maybe thirty seconds later, _thanks to_ Ben's hand. Unsurprisingly, it's a relief, though it's oddly like these past few days have been building to this and now it's over, as they lie there catching their breath, dizzy, it's an odd, eerie sort of calm. And unnaturally silent as his heart beats too fast but quickly returns to normal and he pulls back just far enough to slip from inside Matt's body. 

Then Matt turns. It's a jerky sort of movement that plants his elbow in Ben's ribs not once but twice before he settles down facing him, flushed and sort of dampish, not unlike Ben himself. Ben really can't help but smile, mostly because this is a sure-fire way to tell it's all real - they're lying there afterwards, two exhausted guys covered in a fairly icky combination of sweat and lube and come, but sated and happy all the same. 

"What's so damn amusing?" Matt asks, though he apparently can't help but smile himself as he slings one arm over Ben's waist. "No, y'know, wait and tell me in the morning."

Ben snorts. "I don't know what the fuck you think we're doing now," he says, leaning over to the nightstand, snagging the remote and aiming it at the television, watching it splutter to life and focusing on it for a second. "Ten minutes of Frankenstein then we're going to shower, you unhygienic fucking heathen."

Matt shakes his head, smiling as he settles in closer. Ben'll be surprised if they make it to the shower tonight. Right now, staying where he is makes too much sense. 

***

It's good to be home. 

It's good to be home even when this is _home_ home and not LA home, when this definitely wasn't the plan and he should've, sensibly speaking, taken a flight back to California instead of driving to Boston with Ben. The unfortunate thing is he can't actually bring himself to regret it at all, even though he has a grand total of four wearable shirts in this place and his mom's been playing nursemaid - with her usual sort of strictness bordering on sadism - since he turned up three days ago. She says she doesn't want an apology and logically he knows he doesn't have to give her one but he still feels like he can't apologise enough; he remembers the look on her face as she saw him like this for the first time, and he's been saying sorry instead of thanks every time she's brought him his meds or coffee or something to eat since then. She just gives him that disapproving look of 'well, I hope you're proud of yourself' every damn time, the one that makes him feel about six years old, and yet despite that... it's still good to be home. 

He's been essentially left to himself since he got back, except for his mother and a few phone calls. His agent called two days ago with some auditions lined up for the end of the month, so he knows he has to get back out there soon. Kyle called this morning to say Mom'd called and ranted at him about his brother's ridiculous job interfering with his health, so he'd probably have some serious sucking up to do. And he called Ben yesterday, got his mom who said he was out and leaving soon so she'd get him to call back; Ben did call back, just after Kyle hung up, but by then Matt was out. He hasn't managed to get past the busy signal since then and it's not-so-slowly driving him nuts. 

So, he's been driving his mom nuts in turn, lying around on the couch next to a fan, watching hours of television or reading a bunch of Frank Miller TPBs he's borrowed from Ben that the perennial scatterbrain had forgotten were stowed in the trunk of his car, cooking in the heat. Normally his mom'd tell him to go do something constructive, even if it's just reading a newspaper and not those awful comics, but this time she's letting it slide and that's just another way he knows he must look fucking awful, which really just brings the guilt right back up again. The problem is that he's actually feeling fucking pathetic, has done for a couple of days now; it's like he had five days of feeling off-colour but essentially okay followed by this, the whole ridiculous thing hitting him so hard he's only been out of the house once since he got back, when Ben dropped him off and told him to call when he got the time. Which is silly because he was doing fine before that, with Ben reminding him to take his meds and eating marginally healthy food some of the time and sleeping agonisingly little, Ben bitching about his health and Matt just looking back at him, muttering something oddly cheerful about how healthy road trips generally aren't, even if that's their traditional method of coast-to-coast travel. 

It's probably wrong that he's really fucking ill and yet he's still having to force himself not to mentally plan the trip back to LA, one that'll be without Ben this time because apparently he's leaving, and it'll probably involve a flight that he'd rather not take. He doesn't enjoy flying. Sometimes he's wondered if Ben really doesn't either or if he just says he doesn't and makes the occasional long-ass cross-country trip to make him feel better, or maybe because he misses him. Neither scenario would really surprise him; Ben's always been that way - once he's decided he likes someone, that's it, they'll never be rid of him. Maybe that's why it's so completely ridiculous that he doesn't know right now if he's supposed to get pissed off or panic. When he's done fluctuating between 'I'll kick his fucking ass the next time I see him' and kicking himself for thinking this could ever work out well, they'll still be fine. They always are, no matter what. The only real question is if they'll be fine as friends or something else, something more.

Three days ago now, it really felt like it was going to be that something more, he's willing to admit that. He was looking forward to it. They woke together in that cheap and somewhat scary motel the morning after, at the same time thanks to a particularly loud honk of a horn outside the window that turned out to be an inconsiderate TV repair guy. Then they looked at each other, and that was it - Ben shifted over on top of him, pressed him down; Matt pulled him into a kiss and they did it again, face to face, all those shades of hard and fast and desperate that the night before just hadn't been. Then they both bitched about their aches and pains all the way back to Cambridge, tuning the radio back into the local station and finally forgoing the fucking Bon Jovi while Matt teased him about buying lube – he has this image of him standing at the counter with that awkward blush giving him away though he'd look otherwise perfectly nonchalant about it. He made him blush and let him blame it on the heat while Matt fanned him with that creased-up movie magazine. It seemed like Ben was over his objections and the bulk of his nerves. It really seemed like it was going to work. 

But then Ben dropped him off, didn't stay but that made sense at the time, even if it makes somewhat less now. He can't get in touch with Ben and fuck, after that big of a step, if he really is leaving, he does need to talk to him. It's strange, like he's gone from those surreal few months of filming to this humdrum reality but with a totally insane sort of break between the two, something he can't decide was really real or just an aberration. Maybe it was the heat. Maybe it was Ben's shock and it was all just a demented way of making sure he's okay, he just doesn't know. And he needs to. It's just a pity no one at Ben's place is answering the phone. 

He's sitting there with the cordless phone on the coffee table next to him, halfway through A Dame to Kill For (and three quarters of the way through the Empire Strikes Back – apparently he likes to multitask) when the doorbell rings. There's no one else in the place right now and really he wants to leave it and maybe whoever it is will just leave but in the end he's hearing his mom's voice in his head yelling 'Matt, it's Ben for you.' So he heads out to the door. And it actually _is_ Ben, despite his little talk with himself on the way to the door trying to persuade himself that it probably wouldn't be; he's holding a cigarette that they both know Matt's mom won't allow in the house so he doesn't bother to ask him in, and the first thing Ben does is offer it to him. 

"I'm leaving," he says. Matt raises his brows as he takes a drag on the cigarette and passes it back; Ben takes it and taps off the ash, fidgets with it in that way Matt knows he only does when he's not quite at ease. "Don't panic on me, it's just rehearsals in Jersey with Kevin and the guys. I might get a couple of days between that and filming but who knows, right?" Matt makes a sort of understanding but ultimately noncommittal noise and Ben frowns just slightly, the abrasively chipper edge to his voice fading out as he continues. "I've been trying to call but it's been hectic, y'know? Calls to make, people to see. Sounds almost glamorous but the truth is my mom made me visit a fucking zillion relations and then call Casey." He makes a sort of jabbery-mouth hand gesture that Matt finds ironic because it actually a more accurate description of Ben than it is of Casey, then he rubs at the back of his neck, then he jams that hand into the pocket of his jeans. "I tried to call, y'know. I wanted to come by but your mom said you weren't here."

"Well, I wasn't." Matt sighs, slumping against the doorframe when what he actually wants to do is pull him to him by the front of his shirt and plant his forehead against his shoulder. He's starting to see that he misses their weird sort of on-the-road co-dependency; it wasn't just Ben running into convenience stores and grabbing food for Matt, reminding him to take his meds for the damn near two thousand miles they drove – Matt did his fair share of bitching for Ben to eat and sleep and he guesses that's what he misses, that each of them would've been run completely ragged without the other. It should be something more of a revelation than it feels, more shocking, except it's actually nothing new to say he needs Ben. Or that Ben needs him just as much. They've always depended on each other. "And I need to get back to LA."

"Don't."

He says it so quickly that Matt frowns at that. " _Don't_?"

"Don't. You're fucking clearly not well." Matt sighs, something like an _oh, here we go again_ sigh, and Ben takes a drag and shakes his head. "Look, hang around, okay? Get some rest and take care of yourself for Christ's sake, you fucking idiot." Then he smiles, leans on the other side of the doorframe. "And when you feel better - and I mean actually _better_ , not just fucking passable - come down to Jersey. Hang out a while, then we'll drive back out there together."

Matt just nods. He doesn't take it as a question, though that's probably how Ben means it – he's just happy to rearrange his plans. His mom'll be happy. His agent'll probably bitch and moan about those auditions but he's so fucking gaunt he'd never get them anyway. "Okay," he says. "I'll see you in Jersey."

And Ben beams at that. "I'll call you when I get there," he says, in that way that means Matt knows he means it. He drops the cigarette, grinds it out with the toe of his boot and then looks up and he's still smiling, still leaning there looking lanky and awkward and Matt can't help but smile back, it's infectious. They'll see each other soon. They're going to be fine. 

"Yeah, call me when you can," Matt says, and he stands up a little straighter because one of them has to or they'll be standing there all day in this damned comfortable silence, though he honestly can't say that he wants him to go. He wants to pull him into the house now that cigarette's out, subject him to Return of the Jedi for the umpteenth fucking time and make him stay. He wants to make out on the couch like a goddamn horny teenager before his mom gets home. He wants to lock them both in his room and not let him go until everything's okay again. But he is, after all, the sensible one. So he does no such thing. 

Ben nods, takes the hint, turns to go. He takes a step away and maybe Matt sighs, maybe there's no noise at all and Ben just turns because he wants to, but he turns and he steps in close and just kisses him, firmly, like he can tell he's had doubts and that's all he needs to do to ward them off. Maybe it is, or maybe Ben had doubts oaf his own to put aside before he has to go. It doesn't matter why, because it's not a kiss goodbye. 

And then he leaves, just walks away and gets into the car, starts it, gives a dumb little wave that makes Matt smile as he pulls away from the kerb. There was really no need to say anything else, not after the kiss, not as Ben cupped Matt's face in his hands and smiled that way. There's no need for them to say the words because they're already understood. 

And Matt knows now that this thing they have, maybe it's going to take time. It'll take some growing into, for all the doubts and fears to fall aside. But it's going to last. And it's as real as can be.


End file.
